Page 52 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Nice? Wow. That’s an understatement.

Tugging her hand from his, she sat back in her seat. It was better that way. Not looking at him.

Oh, don’t go being attracted to him, Monet. That would be just plain stupid.

It would. As good looking as he was—don’t you mean sexy?— she wasn’t stupid. Creatively flakey at times, yes. Incredibly imaginative, yes. But stupid? No. He was here for Annie. Which meant he could be as sexy as all get out and he was still off-limits.

“The artist called Monet.”

If she wasn’t so unsettled by the man’s unexpected affect on her she would have laughed at his obviously humored clarification. Ever since the day she’d enrolled at Columbia to study fine art, she’d been subjected to mocking derision about her name.

She gave Dylan a pointed look, deciding to shut down any attraction she felt toward him now. “I take it you think my name and profession are funny?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, love. Fitting.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s an Australian cowboy know about art?”

It was a low blow. One Monet regretted immediately.

“Stockman,” Dylan corrected, that lopsided grin playing with his lips again. “And quite a bit in fact, given that my mum was an art history major at uni before she met my dad and moved out whoop whoop to be with him on Farpoint Creek.”

Monet blinked. Her head was spinning. Firstly, because she didn’t understand half of what Dylan had just said, and secondly, because what shedidunderstand sounded as if he knew about art.

Okay, shutting down any attraction was going to be harder now. How many unpretentious Australian cowboys who knew about art and looked like a sexy-assed, hotter-than-sin Adonis were there in the world?

Very few, she guessed. And this one belonged to Annie.

“So I take it the couple making out between us is your handiwork?”

It was all Monet could do not to groan. Making out. Couple. All words that made her think of sex. She didn’t want to think about sex at this moment. She was bound to blush. Or find herself looking at the Aussie cowboy’s crotch.

Nodding, she pressed her thighs together and searched his face for any kind of flaw. There had to be one.

There wasn’t. Damn it.

“It’s very good,” he said. “Makes me think of Auguste Rodin’sThe Kiss. Just…” Dylan’s gaze moved over the sculpture. “Dirtier.”

Monet ground her teeth. The universe was conspiring against her. Was it his accent? His grin? The unexpected art knowledge? The way he said “dirtier”, as if he knew exactly what had been going through Monet’s mind when she’d created it?

His gaze returned to her face, his green eyes shadowed by the brim of his well-worn black hat. “What’s it called?”

“FWB.”

“Friends with Benefits?”

She shook her head, her mouth dry, her cheeks hot. “Fucking with Beauty.”

Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Is it an autobiographical piece?”

Monet swallowed. Was he flirting with her? Her nipples pinched tight at the ridiculous thought, straining at the lace of her bra and material of her shirt. If Dylan were just some guy she’d met in a bar, she’d be flirting her ass off right back. He was too damn hot not to. But he wasn’t justsome guy.

So time to stop thinking about it, Monet Carmichael. Got it?

Tearing her gaze from his face, she pressed back farther into her seat, her heart beating hard. It didn’t help her resolve, however, that every time she pulled in a breath, his subtle scent teased her senses. When Annie got home, Monet was going to kill her. “All art is autobiographical,” she answered, trying to sound enigmatic and aloof. “Especially?—”

The cab suddenly stopped, propelling both Monet and Dylan against their seatbelts. Her sculpture slid forward and it was only Dylan’s fast reflexes that stopped it from sliding to the floor.

“That’ll be eighteen dollars,” the driver muttered, looking at Monet in the rearview mirror.